Of Silence and Shadows
by thewanderers'wanderingdaughter
Summary: The dark turns us into different people from who we really are. Sometimes others are (un)fortunate enough to see it. One-shot.


**In the spirit of Halloween. A bit of an AU Molly, but I don't really care because this was fun to write. I know I had a rule to not post anything until I finished His Persephone but this came out like a sudden attack of writer's vomit (is that a thing? It is now.) and I couldn't help myself.**

**Enjoy.**

**I own nothing.**

* * *

Up above the cars bustled noisily down streets, the cathedral bells _kaanged_, planes roared through the sky and life flourished as it usually did. Doctors rushed about, patients moaned in their beds, families cried and lives were cut short.

But down here was all silence. Down here in the pathology lab she was surrounded by walls that held dead bodies. Cold metal boxes that gleamed dully in the dim light, holding another guest she would introduce to her court, for here, only the dead thrived.

It was only the dead who reigned here. Only the dead, for whom the silence rang, loud as sirens in the lower level, but an imperceptible whine that precious few of those above could hear, and they who could hear it would join them soon.

The others hated the silence. Thought it would drive them mad. Some of them brought music to play while they worked, others filled up the cold, empty space with their talking, but not her. When she worked she made as little noise as possible to preserve the silence, to enhance it.

Combined, the silence and the dark were a thick blanket of comfort for her. In the dark she was a different person. The dark stripped her down to what she really was, to what the silence made her. No nervous babbling, no awkward laughter. No stuttering.

No Molly.

Here she was someone else entirely, cold and sleek and graceful in the presence of the dead, her preferred companions. They did not ignore her. They did not mock her. Most importantly, they _never_ laughed at her. Her pale, stiff friends were the closest ones she had. It was to them who she betrayed her secrets, her troubles and pains. It was to them she spoke the most, more than any other person in her acquaintance. But only when they asked. She only spoke when they asked.

Sometimes she didn't even have to speak. The dead knew everything, it seemed. She imagined she could hear them talking to her, telling her their stories of when their hearts still beat. The things she learned from them! The secrets they all shared! She held her court like a queen and they populated it gladly, her beloved subjects.

Her cold friends never brushed her off. They _wanted_ to see her; they _wanted_ her around, unlike the living ones above. The living ones could never understand-she had tried to show them what she was really like, that she was not always a silly, nervous little thing. It was only that living people were _so_ impatient, so loud. They always demanded, whereas the dead asked politely and spoke in hushed whispers. They adored her, her late friends, and she them, for they were the only ones good enough to allow her to reveal her true self to them.

So in the shadows she worked, preferring the dim light to the blinding white of the overhead ones, for whenever she flipped those on her company went away and she would be truly alone. Only when others came in would she turn on the lights, and bumble and stutter about until she was drenched in the dark once more.

Now, though, it was getting late, and it was time for her to clean up. Once the body had been put away and the records finished she spent several long minutes properly cleaning each sharp instrument, moving elegantly under the veil of the dark.

There was a strange scuffling sound behind her and she turned around, frowning. Dark as it may have been, her eyes had adjusted to it and she saw quite clearly. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It could have been a mouse, but there were no mice here. Everyone else had left hours and hours ago. She was certain she was the only living creature there. Yet that noise said otherwise.

Something had changed in those few seconds. Something felt off.

Strong fingers curled around her scalpel, and she listened intently for another noise, anything. When silence prevailed as it always did, she exhaled slowly and turned back to her work table.

Moving deliberately slowly, she resumed her task, taking her time. Whoever-whatever-was down there with her would have to come to _her_. She was armed and unafraid, and ready for what might come.

Eventually she finished, and nothing more had occurred in that time. She would have shrugged it off as a draft rustling some of her papers, but paper didn't make _that_ sound, and she had not felt a draft anyhow. She still felt off, however, just slightly uneasy; even though she could feel she was not in danger.

After washing her hands and drying them on her trousers she made her way to the exit where her tote and cardigan waited for her. She found an elastic in her pocket and quickly pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and pulled on the cardigan. With all the rustling of the fabric and moving around she did not notice it, but another peculiar sound was produced from somewhere close behind her, and the shadows themselves seemed to shift towards her.

By then the door had shut behind her and she was gone. Molly made her way up to the noise and the living, and the dead stayed shrouded in their shadows. The farther she went the louder the world became and the smaller the silence grew. She left it behind with the comforting thought that she would see it all again the next day, and quickened her pace, eager to get home.

Back in the cold, shadowed room, the shadows kept shifting. A sliver of light caught on a pale expanse of a face, curving around a sharp cheekbone, and a pale eye. Now that she was gone he was able to move and make as much noise as he wished, not that he cared to. His mobile glowed in his pocket, vibrating every now and then with another worried text from John, whom he'd left in a hurry to come speak to Molly about needing another pair of hands for an experiment.

It had been some time since he had visited her so abruptly as this-normally he'd send a text her way to warn her in advance but tonight he had been so immersed in his thoughts he had forgotten. He had waited in unused office on the far side of the room, thinking on another case when he heard her come in. He had made his way through the unexpected darkness to where he knew she was; the bright white of her coat glowed like a beacon amidst the gloom.

His mouth was partly open by then, readying to issue out his usual curt greeting when his voice died in his throat. Other voices; soft, hushed, urgent, filled the air around him. Male, female, young, old, they all spoke over each other in whispers. His mind sparked and he listened keenly, quickly discerning they were neither from a radio source nor any portable music device. Upon entering the place he had seen no other living soul until now, and it was clear Molly was not making the sound (not that she could anyway her lungs were too small to make such sounds as some of those voices were making) since she had turned again and he could clearly see, even through the dark, that her mouth was not open. But the tilt of her head and the curve of her lips, the occasional nod of her head indicated she heard them too.

The second she had left the voices had stopped, and he had found his breath again. A quick glance at the door showed there was no rigging connected to any device that might turn on the sounds when triggered. It was not like Molly to play practical jokes anyhow.

Sherlock remained still in the dark for several minutes afterward, unsure how to proceed. He lifted his hand in front of his face. It was shaking slightly. Quickly he balled it into a fist and shoved it into his pocket to clench around his mobile, and did another sweep of the place before leaving.

The second he was out in the street the cold hit him and he looked around. Molly was gone (not that he had expected to see her). His right hand smarted with the cold and he reached into his pocket to find his gloves. Sherlock pulled on the gloves. His hands still shook. Not as bad as before, but still. An additional weight in his pocket caught his attention, and he reached in once more and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

These had not been in his pocket when he was still in the hospital. He would have known. A quick, startled look around him revealed no one that might have slipped them into his coat, but it was of no matter anyhow because the only person who could have done it, the only person who could have given him _this_ particular carton of cigarettes (he had given it to her months and months ago when he had given up smoking with a check to keep her from giving it back to him, this _exact_ one with the worn edges and the dusty imprint of John's shoe from when he tried to hide it under his foot when he found out Sherlock had bought them and _it smelled like her_) was nowhere near the vicinity. She had not even come within a foot of him inside the lab.

Swiftly, ignoring the proof of his agitated state of mind in his clammy hands and irregular breathing, he took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long, deep drag before starting home.


End file.
